


My Little One

by Moiraine



Series: My Little Fenris [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Abuse, Collars, Dehumanization, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Non Consensual, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiraine/pseuds/Moiraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Danarius emerged from the bathing chamber, clad in a silk dressing gown, Fenris was in place—sitting back on his heels, knees slightly apart, hands resting on his thighs, back straight and head bowed.</p><p>A pet, waiting for his master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was done as a fill for the DA kmeme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/4251.html?thread=10438555#t10438555
> 
> It does stray slighty from the original request, but the meat of it is still the same. Read at your own risk.

“Every time she looks away, you stare at Hawke with those sad puppy eyes.”

Fenris froze, swinging round to glare at the blood mage. “There are no puppy eyes.”

“It's all right, you know. Even you can be happy once in a while. It won't kill you. But your face might crack if you smile, so be careful.”

He gritted his teeth, muscles in his jaw jumping. “There are no puppy eyes!” he grated. “I am not a dog!”

“No,” Anders interjected. “Dogs are better trained. It’s a wonder Danarius never taught you any manners.”

Rage, blinding and hot, filled him, blotting out every other thought. The others continued to walk, but he stopped dead in the middle of the street, head down and harsh breaths hissing through clenched teeth. He curled his hands into fists, the points of the gauntlets driving heedlessly into the flesh of his hands and drawing blood. His arms shook with the strain of not ripping the abomination’s heart out of his chest.

They noticed that he’d stopped, and he could sense them turning to look. Merrill’s and Anders’s words stirred ugly, sick memories, and he fought back a rising wave of nausea. He needed to leave, now, before any questions were asked, before Nerys began to worry over him with that terrible insight and understanding that was its own sweet form of torture.

Fenris spun on the ball of his foot, and strode away, his long-legged gait taking him swiftly away from the party. Let him be fast enough this time that she couldn’t catch up. Let him go somewhere where she couldn’t find him. Let her once, just once, not follow him when he fled to lick his wounds in private.

The scrape of a boot heel behind him told him that that would not happen, and he whirled to face her, responding with aggression where running had not worked. “Do not follow me!”

Nerys pulled up short about five feet from him, her expression bewildered. “Fenris, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong!” he snapped.

Hurt and confusion flickered across her face briefly before resolving into concern. “Something is clearly wrong. What is it?”

“I do not wish to talk about it!” he snarled, causing her to take a reflexive step back. It shouldn’t have felt good to see that, to see that flash of alarm and fear. But the wolf—the animal, the beast—inside him reveled in it and howled for more. He shook his head dumbly as if to scatter the thoughts. He had to end this, go now before he did something he would truly regret. Fenris spun away from her again, running and making no pretense that he wasn’t fleeing. He heard her call his name once, but ignored it.

His flight carried him to his crumbling mansion. He bolted inside, seeking not the sanctum that was his room, but the cool, musty cellars below the estate. The markings on his skin were the only light he had to guide him as he fled down dark staircases and through silent rooms filled with dusty wine racks and dustier bottles.

Collapsing into a corner, his pressed his back against the stone, drawing his legs up against his chest and wrapping his arms around them. It reduced the shaking of his limbs, but did not still it completely. He dropped his forehead to press against his knees as unbidden memories rose up and overwhelmed him.

He could never tell her this, never show her what lay just below his scarred surface. He couldn’t bear the shame of having her, of all people, know how broken he was.


	2. Chapter 2

The study was dim, a small circle of light coming from the single lamp on Danarius’s desk. It was also quiet, the only sounds the faint rustle of parchment and the scratch of a quill. Even the sounds of the mansion did not seep through the solid oak doors, though the slaves knew better than to make any loud sounds while their master was working.

Danarius set the quill in its silver holder, and then sanded the sheet of parchment in front of him. While he waited for the ink to be absorbed, he capped the inkwell and put away unused papers. They he tapped the sand off the sheet, gathered it with the other he had been working on, and rose. “Come, Fenris, it’s time to retire for the evening.”

Fenris immediately straightened behind Danarius’s chair, standing from the semi-relaxed pose he could—and often did—hold for hours. He heeled to his master, following a pace behind the magister as they walked to Danarius’s private suite of rooms. In public, Fenris often walked in front of his master, shielding him and on guard against attack. But within the estate, he always followed, keeping behind Danarius as was his place.

The intricately carved doors to Danarius’s rooms swung open smoothly and silently as they approached, the waiting slaves springing into action at the approach of their master. It was a form of magic, rendered through power and fear, but no less powerful than the one the magister could call from his hands.

As he passed through the doorway and into the antechamber, a peculiar lassitude swept over Fenris. It was the same every night. His shoulders bowed and his head drooped slightly as the heaviness settled over him. He wished he could blame this change on blood magic or some other foul sorcery, but somewhere deep inside his soul, where he kept a sliver of himself free, he knew it wasn’t true. He could not use the excuse of magic to explain to his actions.

It was training, behavior conditioned into him over long months. A change in what he was that, as much as it disgusted and horrified him, he did not fight.

As they stepped into the opulent living area, slaves rushed forward to attend to Danarius. Though they were different—human and elven, male and female, tall and short, toned and supple, lithe and rounded, fair and dark—they were near uniform in their youth and attractiveness, each clad in a short tunic so thin as to almost be sheer.

As two slaves began disrobing Danarius, slipping his robes off his tall, thin frame and hanging the garments carefully, Fenris stepped off to the side. Set against a wall were two stands, a small cabinet and a short bench. He slipped his greatsword from the harness on his back and set it on one stand, and then began removing his armor. He unbuckled and unlaced the pieces with an efficiency born of much practice, setting each piece of armor on the second stand. Once he was down to the leather tunic and breeches he wore beneath his plate, he removed polish and soft cloths from the cabinet and sat down of the bench to care for his weapon and armor.

In truth, they did not need cleaning. There was no opportunity for them to get dirty or damaged within the estate, and he had not left it in several days. But he could no more ignore this step in the routine than he could stop breathing. So oil was worked into leather straps and laces to keep them supple, and rubbed over metal surfaces until they gleamed. By the time he was done, Danarius had retreated to the bath chamber and other slaves were bustling around the room, setting out dishes and cutlery in preparation for Danarius’s dinner.

After replacing the polish, he folded the dirty cloths and set them on top of the cabinet. Then he peeled the leather tunic and breeches off, folded them and set them on the bench. These were followed by the thin linen clothes he wore under everything else to keep the leather from chafing his skin. Slaves would take the clothing later, cleaning the leather and setting out a fresh set of the linen clothes.

Naked, Fenris walked into the bathing chamber where Danarius was immersed in a deep pool of hot water, being scrubbed and cleansed by a handful of female slaves whose tunics had been turned transparent by the water and steam. The slaves ignored him, too well-trained to turn their attention from their tasks for even a second. He padded silently to the corner where objects for his own ablutions waited. As Danarius’s slaves massaged precious oils into his tender flesh, Fenris relieved himself and then crouched by the small tin tub filled with cold water. He washed quickly, scrubbing at his skin with a small bar of pleasant smelling soap and a rough rag. A waiting bucket of water sluiced the lather off of him, and second did the same thing once he’d washed his hair.

Two older, human boys helped the magister from the tub, and the female slaves began to pat his body dry with soft clothes while Fenris ran a bathing sheet over himself to wipe most of the water away. The routine was the same, always, and Fenris knew he had but a few minutes to finish his preparations. He left the bathing room swiftly and made his way back to the bench. The clothes had been removed, and as he sat, another slave came and handed him a bowl of stew. He ate in quick, neat bites as the slave waited, handing it over to the boy as soon as he was done. A cloth was then proffered and Fenris wiped his hands and his mouth quickly.

That done, he slid open a small drawer in the cabinet and removed a leather and silver collar. He buckled it around his neck, pulling it to the well-worn notch that snugged the collar flush around his neck, tight enough that he could feel the pressure of it as he swallowed, but not so tight that he choked. Then he rose, and—for the final time that night—walked to the table where Danarius’s meal was being laid out and knelt by his chair.

By the time Danarius emerged from the bathing chamber, clad in a silk dressing gown, Fenris was in place—sitting back on his heels, knees slightly apart, hands resting on his thighs, back straight and head bowed.

A pet, waiting for his master.

Danarius seated himself, eating the food his slaves served him and drinking the wine they poured. The rich scents filled the room, making Fenris very aware of how plain and inadequate his own meager dinner had been. But he didn’t stir, remaining perfectly still by his master’s side, his only movement the smooth rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

After a while, Danarius’s hand appeared in his line of vision, holding a piece of roast fowl before his mouth. Fenris leaned forward, taking the morsel with his lips and chewing quickly. When he’d swallowed, he leaned forward again, licking his master’s fingers clean, kissing the tips in thanks, tasting the expensive oils that kept his master’s skin soft and supple. Danarius withdrew his hand when Fenris was done, returning to his meal, but every few minutes he would hold out another tidbit to his pet—a wedge of sharp cheese, a bite of crusty bread soaked in rich gravy, cuts of delicately braised meat.

With each scrap offered from his master’s hand, the gnawing hunger in Fenris’s belly abated. That was why his own meals were always so unfulfilling, so that Danarius could feed him these treats and reinforce his place at his side. Though he had little to no contact with the rest of the slaves in Danarius’s household, he knew none of the other slaves ever ate anything near this good—food fit for a magister’s plate.

He also knew none of them envied him for even a moment. Such privileges had their cost, after all, something he could feel as the collar tightened slightly each time he swallowed.

The final treat was a bit of custard that Danarius swiped from his dish with one finger and held out to him. Fenris opened his mouth, drawing the digit inside and sucking on it, swirling his tongue to get every last trace of the creamy sweetness, and then a few more times for good measure before releasing his master’s hand with a slightly obscene pop.

Danarius ran his hand through Fenris’s hair, carding the mostly dry white locks in a soothing, repetitive motion. “Such a good boy,” he crooned. “Such a good pet, my little Fenris.”

Fenris hated— _hated, hated, hated_ —the flush of pride those words caused, even as he straightened with the praise, holding himself as perfectly as he could for his master. Danarius’s long nails scraped lightly across his scalp and he couldn’t help the slight whine of pleasure it caused. Never mind that the food he’d just eaten sat heavily in his stomach as it lurched and threatened to rebel, disgorging all that his master had just fed him, still he leaned up into the touch, seeking more of the affection that was the sole softness in his life.

Chuckling softly, Danarius wiped his hands a silk napkin, threw it down on the table and stood. He stretched slightly, and then walked toward his bedroom, slippered feet making no sound on the plush rugs that were strewn across the marble floor. Fenris didn’t move, remaining kneeling by the empty chair. He could not— _would not_ —move until Danarius commanded him to. And his master didn’t always do that. He had passed more than one night in this or some other position, holding himself still for hours while his master slept, muscles screaming in agony from the forced hold.

Finally, at the door, Danarius paused and turned. “Come to me, Fenris.”

Almost before the last syllable had left his master’s mouth, Fenris was in motion, crawling across the floor with a slinky grace that had had been perfected through long hours of grueling practice and correction.

He crawled through the doorway as Danarius held it open, and then moved to the side to await his next order while Danarius shut the door to block out the sounds of the slaves cleaning up. The magister made a thoughtful sound, and the crossed the room to where two overstuffed chairs were arranged before a low table strewn with books, ignoring the large, high bed that dominated one wall for now.

His master settled into one of the chairs, selecting a book from the table and opening it to where a length of dark silk marked the page. He snapped his fingers and Fenris glided across the floor to his side.

Fenris took a more relaxed pose here than he had while Danarius ate. He still knelt, but now he settled down, his back slouching as he lowered his head to rest it on his master’s thigh. Danarius murmured in approval, in turn causing Fenris to nestle more closely against the leg beneath his cheek. Once more, Danarius’s hand stroked through his chair in languid motions, stopping only when he needed to turn a page.

Slowly, the stroking began to drift down—over the nape of his neck, along the line of his shoulder, brushing his exposed cheek, fingering the tapering point of his ear.

He couldn’t help the small twitch that accompanied the last or the hitch in his breath and the stirring in his groin that it caused. Danarius laughed softly at that, knowing what his actions did to his slave, and knowing just as well that the blush in Fenris’s cheeks and neck carried shame with it.

Danarius continued to read, all the while stroking and petting his slave as Fenris continued to make small noises and movements against him, growing fully hard and squirming with the frustration of not wanting to react this way, yet not having a choice, and being unable to do anything about it. If anything else happened tonight, it would be because Danarius wished it, because Danarius commanded. And any release Fenris might have would come only at his master’s order and only when his master was satisfied. There had been many nights—too many—where Danarius had taken his pleasure and left Fenris hard and aching and feeling like the used thing he was.

Danarius liked it that way.

When Fenris reached a point when he felt he could stand it no longer—though he could, as had been proved to him times beyond counting—Danarius slipped the silk between the pages and closed the book, replacing it on the low table. He pushed Fenris’s head off his thigh and stood, looking down at his pet attempting to gather himself. Danarius reached down, stroked Fenris’s head once more, and then threaded two fingers through the back of his collar. The action tightened the collar just enough to send an uncontrollable stab of panic through Fenris— _can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe_ —before he mastered it. Even then, he made no motion to resist or pull away from the choking sensation.

He wondered morbidly if he would even fight back if Danarius strangled him. Danarius wouldn’t, he knew—that would be too great a waste of such a precious resource like Fenris—but the thought still occurred to him. Outside, in the rest of the mansion or beyond its walls, he knew he would fight until his dying breath. But here, in the rooms where he was nothing except what Danarius made him, would he offer any resistance?

He didn’t think so.

Danarius tugged and Fenris followed him on his hands and knees to the bed, his gait made awkward by his master’s hold on him. At the bed, Danarius slipped his dressing gown off, tossing the silk garment that cost more than most slaves carelessly onto the floor. The magister slipped naked beneath the turned down silk sheets and smoothed them over his thin body. Then he turned to look at Fenris, waiting patiently, silently by the bed, with inscrutable gray eyes. Lips quirking into a smirk, he patted the bed by his hip.

“Up, my little Fenris.”

Fenris crawled up onto the bed smoothly, careful not to brush the hard length of his cock against anything, and curled up on his side against Danarius, his head resting on the hollow of the magister’s hip.

Beneath him, the mattress was soft and deep, the silk sheets cool and impossibly smooth against his skin. What he had to do to enjoy such pleasures in no way changed how good they felt, how after a long day they relaxed and comforted him.

For several minutes, Danarius did nothing but stroke his hair idly. Fenris began to wonder— _hope_ —that tonight would be one of those nights where his master required nothing more than his comforting warmth by his side. A gentle, but insistent pressure against the back of his head shredded those hopes, and he shifted, gently pulling the sheets down Danarius’s body until they were pooled at his feet. Then he leaned forward, nuzzling at Danarius’s groin.

His master was not hard when he began, his cock sitting soft and flaccid between his legs, so Fenris worked to arouse him, kissing and licking the delicate skin of Danarius’s shaft, then occasionally down to his balls and the crease of skin where his hip met his thigh. Danarius groaned softly and murmured encouraging words as Fenris worked until he was finally fully hard, his cock rising up, flushed and engorged.

He moved then, sliding over Danarius’s leg to rest between them. Fenris was glad his own erection had flagged, that he didn’t have that to distract him from pleasing his master. Licking his lips, he slid his mouth over the head, concentrating his attention there for now, his tongue swirling gently and dipping into the slit. Danarius’s hand was now fisted in his hair, but he made no move to control Fenris’s movements, seemingly content to let his pet set the pace and pleasure him with his own choices.

Fenris hated that kind of false freedom. If wasn’t as if he had actual choice and could decide for himself what to do with his life. No, instead it was limited to this particular scenario and he was forced to second guess what his master actually wanted from him or face the consequences. He leaned forward, allowing Danarius’s cock to slide effortlessly down his throat as he pondered his options.

Danarius did not always approve of Fenris using his hands, sometimes binding them so that Fenris was left helpless, but he took a chance tonight. As he rocked back and forth, moving smoothly to swallow his master’s length all the way to the root and then pull back so that he just held the head in his mouth, he cupped Danarius’s balls gently, fondling them and massaging them. The hiss of pleasure above his head told him that he’d chosen correctly.

More certain now that Danarius would be pleased with him, he moved with more confidence. The salty burst of pre-come on his tongue told him that Danarius was getting closer to his peak, as did the tensing of his abdominal muscles and those in his thighs on either side of Fenris’s head. Fenris sucked a bit harder and swallowed, trying to bring his master over the edge.

A sudden, hard yank of the fist in his hair pulled him off Danarius’s cock with a startled yelp of pain. He scrambled back when he was released, sitting back on his heels warily as he watched for a sign for what he was supposed to do.

Danarius slipped to the edge of the bed, opened the drawer in the intricately carved table by his bed and removed a jar of oily balm. Fenris swallowed and took a steadying breath as he slid up the bed to the spot where Danarius had just been laying, the sheets still warm from his body. He came up on his knees, spreading them slightly and then folding his arms just below the pillows and dropping his forehead to rest on them. There was a very faint pop as the magister freed the cork that stoppered the jar and placed it on the table, followed a few seconds later by the sound of the jar being set down.

The mattress dipped as Danarius shifted, moving behind Fenris. A hand, the one without the balm, gently touched the middle of his back, running down the groove of his spine and then to the left to drift over one buttock and down his thigh. The motion repeated several times, each stroke taking a slightly different path and making him shiver with the light, fluttering touches.

“So beautiful,” Danarius murmured thickly. “So beautiful, my Fenris. You have no idea how you look, ready and waiting for me. So vulnerable, so _exposed_.” Fenris shuddered, pressing his head more firmly into his arms, trying to will away the renewed flood of desire that surged through him.

“You’re magnificent,” Danarius continued. “Like the Dread Wolf himself, you are utterly perfect, so dark and deadly. But you sheath your claws and fangs for me, don’t you? In here, you’re no more dangerous than a kitten, and as pliant as one. And only for me. No one else will _ever_ see you this way—will ever have you like I do because you belong to me. You are mine, my little one, in every way. Everything you are, everything you do is for me, to please me. And you do want to please me, don’t you, Fenris?”

Fenris whined, pushing into the hand that now cupped his ass. He did want that. He wanted to be good and please his master. He wanted the praise and the touches that made him feel as if he had value, as if he were worth something. It would be easier, so much easier, to stop fighting himself, to just give himself over and enjoy what his master chose for him. And he tried. He really tried. But that small piece of himself, tucked safely far away inside of himself, resisted, screamed at him that even if he enjoyed himself, took pleasure in Danarius’s degradation, it wasn’t what he—what _Fenris_ —wanted.

He whimpered pathetically at the struggle within himself, and Danarius, taking it for an answer to his question, laughed. Fingers covered with slick touched his tight ring of muscle, carefully working him open, slipping first one finger and then another inside of him. It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes Danarius took him with no thought to Fenris’s comfort, their coupling rough and painful for the slave. It was easier on those nights to remember who he was, what place he actually occupied in his master’s mind.

But on nights like tonight, when Danarius’s fingers curled and twisted inside of him, seeking that spot that made him groan and writhe, it became so much harder. And when those seeking fingers did find the spot, he groaned and bucked against his master’s hand. Only then did Danarius withdraw his hand, replacing it with something much harder and bigger.

Danarius slid in easily, pressing in until his hips were flushed with Fenris’s backside. Then he began to move slowly, in long smooth thrusts that left Fenris helplessly pushing back against him. He kept up that pace for a long time, long enough to make Fenris’s own untouched arousal ache so hard it hurt, hanging heavy between his legs. By the time his master’s control began to fray and he began pounding into him with hard, short thrusts, Fenris could have nearly wept with relief.

With a cry, Danarius came, his narrow hips stuttering as he milked out the last of his release, filling Fenris with a sudden rush of warmth. He draped himself over his pet’s back until he regained his breath. Then he sat back up, sliding free and sinking down on his back beside Fenris, who still knelt with his head down. “Bring yourself off,” he commanded languorously. “And don’t muss the sheets.”

Without hesitation, Fenris reached back, sliding his hand through his crevice, gathering what remained of the balm and some of his master’s seed. Using it as slick to protect his cock from his dry, callused palm, he stroked himself quickly. When his release was imminent, he knelt up slightly, brought his other hand up to cup the head of his cock, and caught his release as it splashed hot and sticky in his palm. His own orgasm was near soundless, Danarius disliking the sound of his pet’s release. He swayed lightly, sucking in harsh breaths through his nose.

“Clean yourself,” Danarius ordered. “And then attend to me.”

Set on the floor in a far corner was a small pitcher and basin of water and a basket of soft clothes. It was what he customarily used to clean up with after Danarius took him, but with his hand full of his own seed, there was no way he would be able to crawl without soiling the carpet. Lifting his hand to his mouth, Fenris licked his seed off until it was clean enough for him to at least crawl on his knuckles. Then he maneuvered off the bed and made his way across the room.

“I can see my seed dripping out of your ass, you know,” Danarius called from the bed.

Fenris knew. He could feel it slipping down his thighs and balls. He flushed with shame and hurried that much quicker to reach his goal. Scrubbing his hands quickly, he wet a cloth and wrung it out, then wiped it over himself, making sure he’d gotten everything. Then he dried himself with a fresh cloth. Taking yet another cloth, he poured some of the clean water in the pitcher over it, wetting it and wringing it out. Taking that carefully in his mouth, and the corner of a dry cloth, he made his way back over to his master.

Danarius watched through hooded eyes as Fenris cleaned him and then carried the cloths back to the basket. By the time he made the hopefully final trip back to kneel by the side of the bed, his knees burned from scraping against the carpet. The magister’s eyes were closed, and for a moment Fenris was afraid that he’d be left in that position for the rest of the night. But Danarius gestured to the foot of the bed.

“Sleep, my little wolf.”

Fenris crawled up, curling up just below Danarius’s feet.

“Good boy.”

~*~

Years passed, and Fenris learned to separate himself, keeping his two selves away from each other. The Fenris who guarded Danarius, who walked the halls of the estate and trained, who stood in the vanguard as Danarius traveled Minrathous and debated in the senate, knew the other Fenris only in passing, brushing past whenever he walked through the antechamber to Danarius’s room.

The _other_ Fenris, the pet with no speech who never rose off his knees, who withstood all that his master doled out to him and begged wordlessly for more, didn’t acknowledge that outside of those rooms he was a devastating weapon. That he was capable of tearing the heart from the chest of an old man who used him, who beat him, who left him writhing in pleasure as often as he left him writhing in agony. When his master hurt and tore him, bound him so tightly and for so long that he needed healing after, used whips and knives and objects, he could only beg and pray that next time he would be better, that he would be worthy of his master and not disappoint him.

Fenris wondered, sometimes, about his sanity. He had no one to ask, no one he could turn to. Was it normal, that he felt like two people? That his two sides loathed each other—the bodyguard disgusted at the pet’s absolute obedience and the pet aghast that the bodyguard dared stand and speak in front of his master?

He only ever really thought about it when he was the bodyguard. In the endless hours of waiting for Danarius, his mind was his own, and even if he could never voice his thoughts, at least they were his own.

“Fenris,” Danarius said one day in his study, not looking up from his work.

“Yes, Master?”

“Lock the door.”

Fenris nodded, taking the heavy key and crossing the room quickly to turn it in the lock. The request was not unusual. Danarius often did things where he did not wish to risk anyone inadvertently walking in. Fenris placed the key on the desk by Danarius’s hand and resumed his position standing just behind the magister’s shoulder.

“Now remove your sword.”

“Master?” Fenris asked uneasily. Danarius never had him remove his weapon unless they were in his rooms or in the laboratory in the mansion’s cellars, conducting experiments on the lyrium in his flesh. That Danarius was asking for it now…. He did not like this.

Cold gray eyes stared at him. “Do I need to repeat my command?”

“N-No, Master.” Fenris slipped the weapon and harness from his back, leaning it carefully against a wall. When he turned back, Danarius had moved his chair so that he was free of the desk. He motioned and Fenris stepped in front of him, trying to keep his gaze trained on his face, but not missing the bulge in the mage’s lap.

No. No, no, no, please, no. His breath was coming too fast and his heartbeat pounded in his head. He felt sick and lightheaded. His eyes pleaded with Danarius for mercy, for a reprieve. Not now, not like this. Not when he was _Fenris_ and able to keep all the private humiliations from coloring the rest of his life.

“Kneel.”

Fenris didn’t move, staring down at his master and begging silently to wake up and let this be a dream. “Please,” he whispered.

“ _Kneel_.”

He knelt, his legs almost buckling beneath him. In horror, he watched as Danarius parted his robes, exposing himself. When Fenris didn’t move, Danarius leaned forward, grabbed him by the hair and pressed his head down. Fenris struggled in the hold, keeping his lips closed even as the head of Danarius’s cock pressed against them.

A small shock rippling through his body was enough to cause his mouth to fall open, and his master thrust home. Fenris’s hands came up to balance himself, and realizing he still wore his gauntlets, let his arms fall limply back to his sides. He went pliant, nose pressed to the graying hairs of Danarius’s groin, mouth and throat filled full of his master. He waited for Danarius to move him, to direct him, to use him. But nothing happened. His master just held him there.

His lungs began to burn and spots danced across his vision. Muscles twitched involuntarily and he struggled against his instinct to bite and free himself. Just as he was sure he was about to pass out, Danarius jerked him back, allowing him to suck in a sweet lungful of hair, and then pressed back in.

Over and over Danarius did this, until he finally came, his seed filling Fenris’s mouth and hitting the back of his throat as he swallowed it. He pushed Fenris away then, sprawling him on the floor while he closed his robes. Confused, Fenris just lay there.

Danarius glared at him. “Get up,” he snapped. “And take your place.”

Fenris got to his feet slowly, hands shaking as he fumbled his sword back into place. As he stood once more, Danarius pushed the key toward the edge of the desk. “The door.”

He took the key, walking with unsteady steps to unlock the door. When he placed the key back on Danarius desk, his master touched the back of his gauntlet clad hand gently, and looked up with a smile. “Nicely done, my little Fenris. You always know how to please me. Such a good boy.”

Fenris didn’t respond, not knowing if he was supposed to or even allowed to. As he stood as silent sentinel behind his master once more, a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the remnants of Danarius’s release filled his mouth. He had his answer now to a question he pondered so long ago. He would not defend himself against Danarius, at all. No matter what the magister did, or where or when he did it, Fenris would allow it. The control and sense of self he’d had as a bodyguard was just an illusion, nothing more, now irrevocably shattered.

~*~

Standing in a clearing in a lush tropical forest, Fenris started down at his gore covered arm in disbelief. Bodies littered the ground, most holding weapons in their hands, some not, but nearly all facing away from him, protecting him from a man whose word sent them to their deaths. He vaguely registered Danarius coming closer, picking his way delicately around the bodies until he stood before his erstwhile slave.

“Very good, Fenris. I’m gratified to see not all your training and good sense has abandoned you. Come. We return to Minrathous today. I will deal with your disobedience in not returning to me immediately and making your master come find you once we’re home.”

He shook his head. “You disappoint me, Fenris. It seems you still don’t know your place. We’ll fix that.”

Danarius turned away and began walking back to the path that would lead to the harbor. He could hear the sounds of the other soldiers Danarius had brought with him forming up to head back. But he didn’t move. He just kept staring down at the corpses of the Fog Warriors. They had sheltered him, protected him, cared for him. They had defended him.

And he’d slain them, on the command of a man who wasn’t worthy to lick their boots.

“Fenris!” Danarius called sharply. “Come!”

He looked up, really seeing the magister for the first time.

No.

Something must have shown on his face because Danarius’s expression tightened angrily. “Don’t you dare think to defy me on this, my little Fenris. Your place is with me. Now come!”

Fenris shook his head, taking a step back.

No.

Rage flooded Danarius’s features, his face mottled. He opened his mouth, to either call for his guards or cast a spell, and in the split second before he could act, Fenris made his decision. He could charge Danarius, attempt to kill him, and risk being cut down by a spell. And if he succeeded, he’d still have to fight the soldiers. Or he could run, put as much distance between himself and Danarius as possible.

He ran.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of a boot heel scraping on stone caused his head to snap up. Nerys stood there, eyes wide and concerned, a small lamp dangling from her fingers. She bit her lip as she knelt down in front of him, setting the lamp doing carefully on the floor.

He was angry that she was here, that she hadn’t listened and had followed him anyway. Why must she always poke and prod and meddle in things that were none of her business? Why did she make a show of caring and worrying? Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone and leave him be?

“What do you want, Hawke?” he grated.

“Nothing,” she said quietly. “After the way you left, I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Afraid I might leave you a man short for one of your ever so important jobs?” he scoffed. “Do not be. I do not forget my debts. My sword will be there when you need it.”

Nerys shook her head. “No, that’s not it. I was worried about _you_.” She reached out, ignoring the way he flinched back from her hand—not that there was far for him to go—and drew her fingers along his cheekbone. When she drew back, wetness glistened on her fingertips.

Fenris looked, mortified, at the visible sign at his weakness. Shame curdled in his gut that he had allowed _anyone_ to see this. How weak was he that memories nearly a decade old could still do this to him? How frail, how pathetic must she think him?

“Fenris….”

He turned away so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. “I told you, I don’t wish to discuss it! Leave me!”

“Fenris, please, look at me.” How dare she have the right to sound hurt, like she was the one in pain? And why did it make him hurt, make him feel bad, to hear that coming from her? He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t ever have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” she said. “I know…. I know I can’t possibly understand what you went through, and that sometimes I speak without thinking and ask questions that hurt you. I’m sorry for that. But I only do it because I care, because I worry about you. I don’t want you to hurt, and I don’t want you feel that you have to run to keep me from doing that.”

She paused and sniffed, wiping the back of her hand across her own cheek. “If I do that, then tell me to sod off and mind my own bloody business. Get mad, yell at me, throw things, pick a fight with me. I won’t be angry. Just…don’t run. Please? Not like that. I don’t know what to do when people run.”

It must have sounded like a simple request to her. She had no way of knowing that it was all he knew, and he had no way to tell her. For so long, running was the only thing that made him feel safe, that made him feel like he had a measure of power and control. And she was asking him to give it up.

No, that was unfair. For more than six years, she had stood by him, never asking anything more from him than friendship willingly given. He’d first needed to learn how to trust, to be a friend. And when he had, he gave what she asked for and gladly. She was the first to truly see him as an equal. Even when he’d lashed out and shown his darker side and abandoned her, she had never held it against him.

He knew she wanted to ask what was wrong, to somehow make it better like she always did. But he would never tell her this. He couldn’t bear it if he did, if he told her the way he’d crawled and begged for his master’s affection, and she responded with disgust. It was likely she didn’t even know how far down into the depths of depravity magisters could sink, and he would not sully her that way.

“I make no promises,” he said quietly. “But I will try.”

She nodded solemnly. “Do you want me to go?”

His mouth worked silently for a moment before he muttered, “Stay. Please.”

Nerys nodded, settling herself down and sitting with him in the cool, musty silence of the cellars.

~*~

“Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.”

Fenris watched Danarius come down the stairs in shock. No. No! This wasn’t happening, not again. He couldn’t…he couldn’t let this be a repeat of Seheron. He pushed away the instinctive urge to cower and obey that even after all this time was _still there_.

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto.”

Looking away, he focused on Varania, letting his rage toward her help burn the desire to kneel and beg away. “You led him here.”

“Now, now, Fenris. Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.” How familiar was that voice, that tone that scolded him so gently, as if he were too stupid to understand the people and situations around him?

No, he would _not_ let this happen again. He would not go back to being a thing, a possession. He would die first. And he would take Danarius with him.

“I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius! But I won’t let you kill me to get them.”

Danarius laughed, and Fenris shuddered at the sound. How many times had he heard that, curled at his master’s feet, kneeling by his side, laying on his back while Danarius infected tortured both physical and mental? “Oh, how little you know, my pet.”

He turned his attention to Nerys. “And this is your new mistress, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Quite lovely.”

Nerys frowned, her brows pulling together. “Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Danarius smirked and chuckled. “It’s not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn’t he?”

 _No!_ The inflection on the words was disgusting, but he was not going to let the magister spill his secrets here, in front of the few people who respected him and the woman he—

No.

“Shut your mouth, Danarius!”

Danarius glared, breathing out an angry huff of air. “The word is ‘master.’”

In years past, that tone would have heralded agony beyond measuring, but Fenris was no longer afraid of it. He saw the soldiers moving down to surround their master and sensed Nerys and the others freeing their weapons. Today, one way or another, he would end this.

~*~

He always thought that seeing Danarius on his knees before him would have brought him great pleasure, that finally ripping out the old man’s heart would have given him peace.

It didn’t.

He was left now trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do next. In a way, Danarius was right. He’d traded one master for another, using his debt to Nerys as an excuse to follow orders while still pretending to be a man. He might not have been collared and leashed, but he was by no means free. He doubted, now, that he ever would be.

“Knock, knock.”

The soft voice in the doorway made him look up. Nerys stood there, a questioning look on her face. He gestured for her to enter and sit.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Fenris looked at the open honesty of her face. Mere days ago he would have killed to prevent his secrets from getting out, from giving anyone the means to hurt him. Now, perversely, he didn’t want them to be secrets any more. In the past, he’d felt lighter each time he revealed something and seen that she didn’t judge him for it, not even when he spoke about the Fog Warriors. As if by be spilling those secrets, he gained power over them and took away their ability to hurt him. Could it be the same now? Could he tell her and still look her in the face and see the same thing he saw now?

The choice was his. He was a man, not an animal, not a pet. He could decide for himself what to do. No longer would he feel the bite of leather around his throat, or feel the shame of submitting himself solely for the pleasure of another.

And he never would again.

The words caught in his throat before he was able to nod slowly. “Yes, I would. I want…. I want to tell you about…Danarius. About Minrathous.”


End file.
